Crack in my chassis
by Scotius
Summary: Waiting for the arctic fog to clear, Scott Tracy thinks about who he is. Angst galore. I own nothing except my ideas.
1. Scott

Crack in my chassis.

„Hey. You still have us." Virgil's eyes were so warm and affectionate when he said it. My beloved, rock – solid brother. My keeper.

„Yeah". I muttered with a smile, shifting my eyes from Virgil to the thermo-cube between us. That subdued, awkward smile slid out of my face as soon as Virgil couldn't see it. I still had my family. I still had him – and it was a huge part of the equation that threatened to rip me apart. How could i tell my favourite brother he was actually a part of the problem? Especially now, when his keen eyes of a trained engineer finally noticed the crack spreading across my facade?

Oh, who i was kidding here? Virgil probably noticed that something was wrong with me right away. Just after Dad gone missing – when i finally, truly realised what kind of gift just landed in my lap.

I felt another smile pulling at my lips. But this one was twisted. Bitter. Oh, how easy my life was before that pivotal moment. Sure. I had my duties and responsibilities. There was stress, fear and frustration. Sleepless nights aplenty, when _„shouldas, couldas, wouldas"_ kept me awake and turning in the bed. But it was a cakewalk compared to today's state of things. It was still an adventure.

I had solid foundation then. Jeff Tracy's steady presence was everywhere – like a net spread below us all. A feling that no matter what, he was there for us – with a plan, encouraging word and a strong hand ready to catch anyone falling. With Dad around i could be... _myself._ Big brother. Ace pilot. Face of the International Rescue (John was always The Voice of course). Always the first one on the site of disaster – ready to flash that charismatic, reassuring smile, calm people down, make them move and coordinate and work with us.

At home i could relax. Be just Scott. A brother, son, grandson, friend. Joke around. Occassionally smooth someone's ruffled feathers. Sit for hours with Dad working on strategies, planning training drills, _learning from Him._ Make sure Gordon wouldn't get too enthusiastic with his pranks. Spend time with Brains and Virgil, thinking about new upgrades for Thunderbirds. Help Alan with homework. Distract Grandma, so the others could have a free reign of the kitchen and prepare something edible behind her back (Okay, so i was saddled with that duty because i too am a crappy cook. Sue me. At least i was still able to contribute to the noble goal of keeping my family fed and un-poisoned.).

Even the dreaded Business wasn't really that bad. Sure – i bitched, rolled my eyes a lot and pretended to be bored out of my mind with business meetings and being the Heir Apparent of Tracy Industries. But deep down...i liked it. As a member of the International Rescue i saved lives on daily basis – running through the smoke, digging through debris, cutting metal. But in the conference rooms of New York, London, Berlin, Delhi and Bejing i helped to make those lives better. I helped to make sure hundreds of thousands of people around the world got their paychecks in time. And hundreds of millions more got clean water, cheap energy and plentiful food. Cars, planes, electronics, tools, clothes. Hospitals, schools, roads, bridges. Homes. All thanks to Tracy Industries or one of dozens of its branches on every continent. It made me feel good. It was me making up for all the lives i _couldn't_ save.

I was happy.

Now i am not.

I miss Dad. I want him back. Nothing is the same without him.

I went through this once already. When Mom died, and Dad...lost himself in the grief and anguish and loneliness. When he threw himself at his work with vengeance. When Tracy Industries was only a fledgeling company and International Rescue a hazy idea. Dad pushed himself and his co-workers forward then...and pushed us aside. I guess... No. I know it was necessary for him to stay at work – surround himself with people that were strangers. Stay away from the building that wasn't really a home anymore – not without Mom. But we were still there, and we needed things from him he simply couldn't give us. So he shifted that responsibility on best babysitters and private tutors his newly acquired money could buy – and hid his pain and shame behind even more work. And that left me alone on the proverbial battlefield. I didn't have the luxury of running away and hiding. Not when John stopped talking in full sentences. Not when Virgil threw all his paints and crayons away. When Gordon cried for hours under the kitchen table and refused to come out. And Alan...Not when i couldn't let go of Alan for more than couple of minutes at a time.

Mom told me to take care of my newest brother. Mom told me to take care of all of them. I was oldest. The only one who could understand what happened and what needed to be done. So i did it. I coaxed Gordon from under the table. I talked to John until my throat started to hurt – and until he started to talk to me again. I bought new drawing utensils for Virgil – and kept moping around all sad and dejected until he started drawing planes and birds for me again. And i kept feeding, changing, bathing and playing with Alan – giving him everything i could give.

I smiled brightly at anyone who asked how things were for my family. I lied to everyone that needed to be lied to. I learned how to fake Dad's signature so well, he never realised how many checks and documents regarding his sons and his house he never even got to see. I helped my brothers with their homework. I held them tight through countless nightmares. I organised all the chores that needed to be done. I made sure everyone were fed, clean, clothed and healthy. I got the movies, books and toys for my brothers and myself. I managed to get Dad or Grandma to actually do everything that needed to be done by an adult. I even managed to kept my own grades decent. And i kept my family afloat and together through the worst storm in our lives.

Our father finally came to his senses, and realised that staying away certainly did not help anyone with anything. He came back to us and our lives – he became our Dad again. We became a family again. But...it was too little, too late for me.

Because...somewhere along the way i cracked. Under the pressure, my chassis buckled and broke deep under the paintwork. Maybe it happened when Mom died. Maybe later – when Dad went to work leaving me with my three crying, traumatised brothers and a newborn in need of parental care. No one noticed. Our babysitters and even Grandma weren't familiar enough with me. My brothers were too young to understand...and of course Dad was...away. But i could feel it – that odd detachment when i was dealing with anyone who was not under my 'protection'. Compulsive need to make sure i knew where my brothers were at any given moment. Anger and agression towards any perceived threat to them. But i couldn't feel anything for myself. I did not cry. I never let anyone know about my nightmares. I never asked anyone for help. I've never shown weakness or fear to anyone. I never lost control. Without a second thought i sacrificed my own childhood, so my brothers could keep theirs.

Today, now that i'm sitting in this small, cold tent – with Virgil snoring softly and wind whistling mournfully around – i know it was combination of survivor's guilt and PTSD that brought me down. I never really became a person i was supposed to be. Something inside me is dark and ugly and still broken. I could hide it, even almost forget about it when the pressure was off of me – when Dad was there to shield me and be the support i always needed. A crutch for his crippled eldest i never let him realised he was. But he's gone now – and the weight of my world is on my back again.

I have to be head of my family again. I have to be CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world. I have to be leader of the International Rescue. And i'm not ready. I have to take Jeff Tracy's place without his wealth of knowledge, experience, cunning and worldwide net of connections and influence. Without his luxury of not needing to get up instantly at crazy o' clock, racing around the world and spending hours and hours in the field digging through crushed concrete and hot, twisted metal.

Virgil...can you see me breaking down? Can you hear the creaks coming from my damaged chassis? Part of me hopes... _knows_...you do. You've been...clingy lately. Keeping closer to me than ever before. Watching me. I know you are worried and confused and waiting for me to tell you what's wrong. I want to, really...But i can't. That break is still inside me – keeping me from showing a weakness. From calling for help. For my sake i hope you can work around it – that you can figure it out on your own. Then again...i'm broken. I can't leave it to chance. I can't risk you putting yourself in danger to save me again and again. Because i'm too crippled and weak and dumb to keep myself safe. But i always can be strong for my family. For your sake Virgil...for John and Gordon and Alan. For Grandma, Brains, Kayo...for Mom and Dad...i'll try. I will do my best to work around that broken part inside of me. I will keep us afloat and together – and i won't be like Dad. I won't leave you to fend for yourself.

It's what i do.

I'm your big brother.


	2. Virgil

Crack in my chassis

Ch. 2.

„You still have us." I said, smiling warmly at my brother.

„Yeah." Scott mumbled in reply. He even smiled back at me, but his smile was...off. Not forced, mind you – just a bit too weak for my liking. Self – depreciating. How i hated when Scott slipped into one of _those_ moods. I blew a quiet sigh when pair of blue eyes slid from me to the heater on the floor.

 _„Oh, Scott..."_ Our earlier discussion was my best shot at getting through Scott's thick skull in months – and apparently i didn't make it completely past his stubborness. Typical. In our family of strong – willed individuals Scott Tracy was still the undisputed champion of pigheadedness. He even could held his own against Dad – a feat not many could claim _._ And there was the problem – with Dad gone, there was no one who could (and would dare) to smack my elder brother over the head and make him _listen._

Still, i had to get through to him. Scott was on a slippery slope, going down - and showed no indications of trying to stop his descent. I kept thinking about the scene in the jungle – when i barely got there in time to stop my brother from punching that slimy archeologist lights out. Sure, that bastard deserved worse for abandoning Gordon, Penny and Parker to their fate – but it was not our place to knock his teeth out. Scott knew this – from the very beginning of the International Rescue he carefully cultivated our image of consummate profesionals. Trustworthy saviours and protectors. People you were safe with – no matter what. We needed that trust to be effective in our work, and Professor Harold going to media outlets and showing his face in shades of black and blue courtesy of IR field leader? That would be a disaster even Penny would have to work hard to contain.

And then there was today's field trip, and Scott's relentless drive forward. Before Dad's disappearance it was very rare for Scott to show his reckless... _ruthless..._ side. And even then it was never to the point of disregarding anyone's safety so blatantly. Even his own. It was the last straw for me, triggering our earlier heart to heart talk. Because the sight of wrecked pod scattered across the ice field? That almost stopped my heart until i could see Scott standing there, no worse for wear. What the hell was he thinking?!

With an aggravated sigh i pulled a thermal blanket from the bag of camping gear, and stretched on the tiny cot on my side of the tent. Seriously tiny – in about ten seconds flat i decided that fitting my long and broad frame comfortably was an excercise in futility. Yet, despite my attempts at broadcasting the discomfort with grumbling, tossing and blanket rustling, Scott completely failed to react. Either he was consciously ignoring me, or was so deep in thoughts my fussing went over his head. I knew my brother well – if it was the former, further prodding would only cause him to clam even tighter. If it was the latter...if Scott was really thinking about my words... it would be best if i'd shut up and leave him in peace.

Wrapped tightly in the blanket and finally somewhat comfortable, i settled for watching my brother. With peaceful silence filling the tent, my mind soon started to wander.

When exactly i've become my brother's keeper – as Scott half – jokingly called me sometimes? I couldn't really remember how close we were as kids – before the accident that claimed Mom's life. I know there was a lot of hero worship towards Scott on my part. And how could it not? He was tall, strong and loved us all very much. Scott was never embarassed with me and Gordon following him around (John always preferred company of books than running arounds with a bunch of noisy kids – the nerd.). Even when we were getting under his feet, he never pushed us away. Not to mention that every bully in vicinity learned very quickly to give younger Tracys a wide berth. But other than that? I was just your average, chubby pre-teen - following his popular big brother around with an armful of pads and pencils. And then our little, happy world was shattered.

I don't remember much of the day before the accident. I don't know what i was wearing, what was for breakfast, or what i planned to do on that day. I don't remember how we arrived at the scene. There were flashing lights, people running around and piles of bent metal everywhere. Mom was nowhere to be seen, there was a group of men clustered around something small making weak, screeching noises. Dad was yelling something somewhere. And there was Scott. Sitting alone on the back of the ambulance.

As an adult with a lot of rescues under my belt, i know what was going on back then. That was a nasty pile up. There were many hurt people needing help. There was my premature born newest brother in need of hospital care. Scott, on the other hand was not injured. Blood covering his hands was not his own. He was calm, responsive and coherent. There were no obvious signs of shock to be seen. So the EMT's gave him a check up, wrapped him in a blanket and sat him down where he wouldn't get underfoot.

Dad, on the verge of nervous breakdown already, skipped over him too – i can't really even blame him for it either. He couldn't find his wife. One of paramedics was shouting gibberish at him about Alan's condition. Gordon was hysterical, and John kept tugging on his sleeve, asking tearfully where Mom was. But i... I couldn't tear my eyes away from Scott.

He didn't resemble a brother i knew all my life. He looked like a stranger – pale, bloody, with dry, dark eyes trained on the group surrounding Alan. There was this terrible... _knowledge_ in those eyes. A knowlegde no fourteen years old should ever have. And... _pressure._ Black and unrelenting _something,_ ready to crush him from the inside.

I wish i could tell that i ran to him, that i wrapped my brother in a hug and offered him whatever comfort i could give. But i didn't. I stood there, lost and scared – watching my family fall apart. Wanting this horrible, awful day to end.

And it finally did. And nightmares began.

I have many different bad dreams. One, sometimes more, for every occassion. We all have them – comes with the territory, i guess. Like my brothers, i went through a lot of therapy as a kid – it would take a psychopath to survive such trauma undamaged. Thanks to Dad's money, we all got some top shelf doctors helping us get through it. But i never talked to anyone about that one, special nightmare about the accident. The one that hit me immediately after, when Grandma finally came and took us from the hospital, where Dad would be staying with Alan for days to come. When we were too tired to stay awake anymore.

It began in an oddly calm, almost peaceful way. There were no people, wrecked cars, flashing lights and screams. Just Scott and i, standing on the expanse of black asphalt, couple of meters apart. We were quiet – just staring at each other. Scott lost his blanket somewhere and i could see all the blood covering his chest and hands. And couple of smears on his face. „ _Mom's blood"_ – i thought. Then i looked into his eyes – ancient, unfamiliar, _dead_ eyes. Then Scott started talking, calling me: „ _Virgil, help me. Help. Help. Help"._ I could see the pressure building up behind his blue eyes. More and more, as Scott's screams grew louder and more urgent. Then the blue turned into red, and rivulets of crimson tears started streaming down my brother's face. And still, none of us moved an inch – we both stood there, rooted to the ground. Then Scott's eyes turned from red to black. Black glass. Bottom of the Mariana Trench black. His pleas grew into a panicked cacophony of : „ _VirgilVirgilVirgil!"_ , and i watched with terrified fascination first cracks forming across those black orbs. _„Too much."_ i thought. _„Too much pressure."_ Then, and only then i found i could move. Not forward – to help. I took a step back.

And Scott's eyes exploded in a shower of shards and blood.

I woke up with only a whimper of fear in my throat. But mere moments later i realised that my face was covered with warm wetness... _BLOOD!..._ and i started screaming my head off. Scott was at my side seconds later – in his PJ's, but fully awoken. I bet my exoskeleton he didn't slept for a moment that night. Probably i chocked out some answers to his anxious questions...or maybe Scott already started developing his brotherly sixth sense that night...but he managed to calm me down by rubbing gently my cheeks, and showing to me that there was no blood whatsoever. Just tears.

 _And probably a lot of snot, but Scott never made a comment about that. How could you not love an older brother like him?_

We stayed snuggled together in my bed for hours, after commotion caused by my...episode...settled down. I calmed down remarkably fast, hugged by my warm, wonderfully alive brother and Scott gradually started loosening too. And with that his tears finally came. Our roles reversed, it was my turn to hold sobbing brother and murmur comforting nonsense into his hair. And i was okay with that. I wasn't taking a step back, abandoning him. I was there – _helping._

The nightmare would make numerous re-appearances of course. Always after particularly hard, bad rescues. When the bodies in bags outnumbered those we managed to save. When Scott's eyes darkened and pressure behind them returned. When no amount of working, talking and music could keep me from falling asleep – into the dreams that always ended with my brother crumpled on the black road. Dead and eyeless.

And here i am now. Virgil Grissom Tracy. Pilot of the Thunderbird 2. His brother's keeper.

Scott is not...suicidal...actually. He is not self – destructive either, despite the appearances. He just...considers himself _expendable._ He can deal with his own injuries and being in danger with ease. Only when others – particularly family members, are at risk his demons wake up. When it happens...he's fourteen again. Stuck in the mangled car, with a newborn brother he needs to protect at all cost. With his mother dying in his arm's reach – yet unable to help her in any way. He is _failing_ those he loves. Again.

But Scott is a grown man now. Trained in saving lives, and driven to do so by his own guilt and need to protect. So he throws himself into the fire, caring only for others – and i am at his back. Ready and waiting to go after my brother, and drag him back to safety. Because he too can still be saved. I'm never taking that fateful step back. I'm never abandoning Scott.

It's what i do.

I'm his brother.


End file.
